


the last man

by oryx



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series)
Genre: M/M, Reverse Chronology, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 04:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oryx/pseuds/oryx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An almost-love story, told from the end to the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the last man

**Author's Note:**

> not really sure why i wrote this backwards? if you think it'd be better right way 'round, let me know and i'll flip it turnways right quick. the title has nothing to do with the story tbh, but i listened to [clint mansell's "the last man"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VUgC6215Gko) about 50 times while writing so it seemed fitting. (ngl, the plot of "the fountain" would make an amazing perfectworld AU fic)

_Perhaps Augustine was right,_ he thinks, and then nothing else after.

 

«

 

«

 

“We’re closed,” the maître d’ says, his voice echoing through the empty café, and Lysandre glances up from his tea. Over Frederic’s shoulder he can see a familiar shock of dark hair. Lysandre smiles and sets aside his newspaper.

 

“Let him pass, Frederic,” he calls. “I’ve been expecting him.”

 

Frederic looks back at him dubiously, but shrugs and steps aside nonetheless. Augustine is slightly flushed as he approaches Lysandre’s table. _Did he run here?_ Lysandre wonders, and almost chuckles at the thought. The set of his features is so very grim. It’s not a look he’s used to seeing on Augustine, a man who laughs things away more often than not.

 

“Take a seat, my friend,” Lysandre says, gesturing towards the chair opposite. Augustine does so after a moment of visible hesitation. His hands are clenched into fists in his lap, knuckles white with tension.

 

“Lysandre,” he says softly. “What was that Holo Clip?”

 

“It was Team Flare’s warning to the world,” Lysandre says. He takes a casual sip of his tea. “It was only right, to forewarn the people of the approaching… _cleansing_. So they have time to make peace with their lives and get their affairs in order, you see. I am not so impolite as to deny them that.”

 

Augustine’s eyes widen. He slumps back in his seat, running a hand through his hair, disbelief written on his face.

 

“That’s… You can’t be serious,” he whispers.

 

Lysandre shakes his head. “You still don’t get it, do you? You and Diantha both… Time and time again, the two of you have refused to see things my way. Going on and on about ‘change’ and ‘evolution.’ Beauty should be like a painting, Augustine. It should be eternal and unchanging. Why do you not understand? I am trying to _help_ this world. I am cutting away the parts that are diseased. The parts that are ugly and worthless. The world will be so much better, after all the unnecessary pieces have been disposed of. It will be so much more beautiful.”

 

“What are you saying?” he murmurs. “Cutting away the ‘worthless’ parts? What… what does that even mean?”

 

“I tried to help everyone, you know,” Lysandre says. He stares into the dregs of his tea with a thoughtful frown. “I tried to improve everyone’s lives. But I was too naïve. Some people are just not worth helping, Augustine. Most people, in fact. I learned this the hard way. Most people are lazy and stupid. They are repulsive and unmotivated. They exist only for the sake of existing, and sometimes not even for that. Once they are gone, the full potential of humanity can finally be realized.”

 

Augustine is staring at him with an expression of pure horror. “This is… this is all wrong, Lys. This is _insane_. What makes someone ‘worthless’? What gives you the right to tell people they’re unnecessary? What gives you the right to… to threaten to kill…” He swallows hard. “I knew you wanted to change this world, but god, I… I never dreamed you would – ”

 

He breaks off, voice catching in his throat.

 

“There is still time, you know,” Lysandre says, his tone conversational. He reaches underneath the table to touch Augustine’s hand, curling his fingers around his wrist and feeling the quick, anxious rhythm of his pulse. “For you to open your eyes and join Team Flare. I would make you an Executive. I would make you my right-hand man, if you so wished. I would give you anything you desired. Immortality, even. All you have to do… is join me.”

 

Augustine wrenches his hand away. He pushes back his chair and stands up abruptly, and he is breathing hard, and his eyes are so sad.

 

“I don’t want any of that,” he chokes. “I just want you to quit this… whatever this is! Please, Lys. _Please_. I just want us to… to be…”

 

“To be what?” Lysandre says.

 

They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment. Augustine opens his mouth, as if to say something he’s been keeping locked away for a long time.

 

But in the end he merely shakes his head, and turns away, and leaves with his shoulders slumped low, as if there were a weight pressing down on him, grinding him away little by little into dust.

 

«

 

«

 

Having a morning to himself is a rare occurrence. It is unusual, that he has not yet received any frantic calls from his secretary, urging him to come in to the office and sign some form or another. Nor has he received any messages from his Flare agents stationed at Geosenge – and no news is good news, as they often say.

 

Whenever he finds himself with time on his hands, he always ends up walking along the South Boulevard, drawn there as if by some subconscious force. And this morning, it seems, is no different. He stands in front of the Pokemon Lab for a time, warring with himself before giving in. The door is unlocked, and yet strangely there is no one inside. It’s a holiday, he remembers suddenly, though he cannot recall the importance of the date. Something to do with romance, if his memory serves him. The professor must have taken pity on his staff and given them the day off, as there is no fresh-faced young assistant at the front desk to give him a knowing smile. No harried interns trying to decipher the professor’s hastily-scribbled notes (his handwriting can be so lovely, but only when he applies himself).

 

Lysandre takes the elevator to the third floor and finds Augustine asleep at his desk, using an open textbook as a pillow. His pen is still held loosely in his hand, pressed against the wrinkled pages of his research journal. (‘No evidence of Mega Evo potential in Nidoking, Simisear, or Heliolisk,’ reads a note in the margin, nearly blotted out by a coffee stain. ‘Why are Pokemon that evolve through stones incapable? Properties of stones cancelling each other out?? Does that even make sense??? Needs further study.’) Lysandre sighs, caught somewhere between fondness and exasperation, reaching over to shake Augustine’s shoulder.

 

Augustine makes a faint, muzzy noise as his eyes flutter open, and he blinks up at Lysandre blearily for a moment before his mind catches up.

 

“Oh goodness,” he mutters, sitting up with some effort and stretching his arms over his head. “I’m sorry, my friend. This is rather embarrassing… You come all the way to see me and I’m passed out at my desk.”

 

“Long night?” Lysandre says with a smile.

 

“Ah, well. You could say that. Had a bit too much caffeine and not enough good ideas, unfortunately.” He hides a yawn behind his hand as he gets to his feet. “Would you like some tea, Lys? I need something to wake me up, but I don’t think I can stomach any more coffee…”

 

“That would be wonderful, thank you.”

 

As Augustine passes by on the way to the kitchenette, Lysandre reaches out and grabs his arm.

 

“Those lines around your eyes,” he says. “They weren’t there a few months ago.”

 

Augustine tilts his head to the side quizzically. “Lines…? Oh, you mean…” He laughs, and it hurts to see the way his eyes crinkle ever so slightly around the edges. “Well it was bound to happen at some point. I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

 

Lysandre lifts a hand without thinking. He presses a thumb to the corner of Augustine’s eye, tracing the lines there as if he could erase them. Augustine seems startled at the touch, like a jolt has been sent through him. He inhales sharply but doesn’t try to pull away. They are so close to each other, Lysandre realizes. Only a few inches apart.

 

“…I know,” Lysandre says quietly. He clears his throat, then; drops his hand and takes a step back. Augustine releases the breath he was holding, the expression on his face almost… disappointed? He turns on his heel abruptly and busies himself with the kettle.

 

They have tea and make small talk, and though it is no different than usual there is an undercurrent of tension present that has never been there before. Like the string connecting them has suddenly been pulled taut. Like they are performing some precarious balancing act, and one wrong word could send everything toppling down around them.

 

(Later, when they exchange goodbyes, Augustine says, “oh, I never did greet you properly this morning, did I?”

 

He smiles and leans in for a kiss on the cheek, and perhaps they both linger just a heartbeat too long.)

 

«

 

«

 

It is late in the evening by the time the board meeting draws to a close. The lights of Lumiose have come alive in the past hour, the soft yellows of corner cafés mingling with the bright neons of highrises, their glow illuminating his otherwise dark office.

 

There is a Clip waiting for him on his Holo Caster, and he sinks down into his chair, a faint smile already curving his lips as he presses “play.” Sycamore’s image flickers to life, hovering in the air, and though the hologram is grainy his grin is as bright as ever.

 

“My friend, I hope you are well,” the message begins. “And I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time! Do you… remember that strange stone I was speaking of a few weeks ago? The one I suspected of being the key to the next stage of Pokemon evolution? Well I’ve developed a rather interesting hypothesis, if I may say so myself, and I plan to conduct some experiments this Friday afternoon to test it! I, uh… I know I have lab assistants for these sorts of things,” Sycamore’s image rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, “but I was hoping you might like to sit in and observe at the very least? You seemed very interested when I last brought it up… Though I know you are a busy man, so I would not blame you for – oh. Oh dear. Only eight seconds of message left? Perhaps… I should’ve considered an e-mail instead? I do have this unfortunate tendency to ramble – ”

 

The message cuts off mid-sentence, hologram stuttering like a weak flame before fading away. Lysandre stares at the empty air for a long moment, torn between amusement and thoughtfulness, then reaches over to press the intercom button on his desk.

 

“Marissa?”

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“Cancel all of my appointments for this coming Friday.”

 

“… A-all of them, sir? Even the talks with Devon Corp and your dinner with the mayor – ”

 

“All of them,” Lysandre repeats. “And get a message down to the tech department. The duration of Holo Clips needs to be extended. By at least a minute, I should think. Use whatever resources necessary to make it happen. And the image quality needs to be improved drastically before the beta launch. The quality we have now, it’s just not… It doesn’t…”

 

 _It doesn’t do him justice,_ he almost says, but catches himself just in time.

 

«

 

«

 

It is during their fifth luncheon (though of course Lysandre is not counting) that the professor first speaks of his time as an intern in the Sinnoh region.

 

“Professor Rowan is a truly great man,” he says. “What an intellect! And his discoveries! He’s been at the forefront of every major breakthrough in the field of Pokemon evolution! I can only hope to be as influential in my career.” He laughs, and Lysandre tries not to notice the faint dimple in his cheeks, the way he tosses his head back ever so slightly, revealing the curve of his throat. “Perhaps in fifty years’ time I’ll have gotten halfway there, eh?”

 

“…Fifty years’ time?” Lysandre echoes. An image springs unbidden to his mind, then: the man in front of him with white hair instead of black. The vibrancy of his movements gone. Stooped and bent, his face a mass of wrinkles, his grey eyes clouded with cataracts. Lysandre presses a hand to his mouth, disgust and horror roiling like a sickness in the pit of his stomach.

 

“Is something wrong?” Sycamore asks, leaning a bit closer, concern colouring his words. “You do not look so well…”

 

Lysandre shakes his head.

 

“Doesn’t it… frighten you?” he asks softly. “The idea of growing older? You speak of ‘fifty years’ so casually… Doesn’t it worry you at all? Don’t you think it is sad – your looks and your body and even your mind fading away with age?”

 

The professor blinks; stares at him curiously. He raises an eyebrow and smiles with a hint of humor and bemusement.

 

“Oh, my friend,” he says, and reaches across the table to pat Lysandre’s hand. “That is not so sad. That is just life.”

 

«

 

«

 

On a nondescript Tuesday in April, he meets the most beautiful man.


End file.
